


Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Marvelicious (Jayjaybe)



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayjaybe/pseuds/Marvelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He flexes his fingers, tingling with the lack of blood flow already, and gives an experimental yank. The chains hold tight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this picture: http://sexy-salmon-loki.tumblr.com/post/85858375633/

There’s nothing but darkness.

It presses in on him from all sides, seemingly denser than the air itself. Loki’s disoriented, dizzy - doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. He stumbles, but something catches his arms before he can fall.

He wasn’t caught - he’s shackled, Loki realizes a half-second later, wrists chained together and bound above his head, to something apparently strong enough to hold his weight. He flexes his fingers, tingling with the lack of blood flow already, and gives an experimental yank. The chains hold tight.

They clink together with a noise suspiciously like laughter. “Who’s there?” Loki calls out, twisting in place, but no matter where he looks there’s only blackness. “Where am I?”

He throws his weight and then some behind his next attempt to break free of the chains. They cut into his wrists, pain searing down his arms and settling in his shoulders, but Loki doesn’t stop struggling until he can barely breathe, the strength in his arms so utterly exhausted that the chain is the only thing still holding them aloft.

Loki tries to tell himself that the dark is a childish fear. Certainly, for one such as himself, who works best in darkness, it should be an old friend. But there’s a chill seeping down to his core. He is prey here.

“Verity!” He yells out. There’s no surface to scry on, no way to access his own magic - if it flickers to life at his fingertips, he can’t feel it - “Thor!” Surely someone must hear him.

“...A little early for the hail-mary,” a deep voice sounds from far behind him. It sounds disappointed - and all too familiar.

The hair on the back of Loki’s neck prickles. Spikes of icy cold stab their way down his spine. “Besides,” his future self continues, drawing ever closer with each word. It’s agonizingly, inevitably, slow. He can’t turn, he can’t see, open to whatever attack the wicked old god has planned. “I’ve brought you to a gap in the narrative. Here, little Loki, no one can hear you no matter how you scream. Not that anyone could ever save you from yourself.” His laughter is vicious with its glee.

Loki shudders, trying to rally his strength for one more go at his restraints. He can’t even lift his wrists for an inch of leverage. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.” He’s never been chained before, but his subconscious must be getting more creative. Loki remembers collapsing into bed. Locking the door. This _can’t_ be real.

“Not your usual nightmare, is it?”

The words come, unbidden, echoing through his mind - _I am the crime that will not be forgiven_ \- but the child whose body he stole is nowhere to be seen. The sounds of his apartment building filter in. There’s the heavy drag of someone moving furniture on the floor above, the near silent rattle-whoosh of air through the vents, a dull, rhythmic thump against the outside wall he can’t quite place.

“Think again.” The old one says, and all of it fades out as quickly as it had come, replaced by the feel of cotton and static in his ears. “I’ve got a new crime on the menu tonight.”

Loki gags unwillingly at the reminder, dusty feathers and rancid flesh on his tongue. He has to fight to swallow. That was his first memory in this body. It can’t be the last. “You’re going to kill me?” He forces out, mouth dry. He’s lightheaded, arms aching, and it’s a fight to stay on his feet. He sways alarmingly.

The old one chuckles, but says nothing. Loki feels him draw closer and then a hand is curling around his hip, fingernails digging into the inside of his hipbone through the fabric of his shirt. The temperature of the room drops further, but it’s replaced by the flush stealing across Loki’s cheeks. His ears burn. There’s a knowledge lingering on the tip of his tongue that Loki can’t bring himself to name. He doesn’t want to be grateful for how the old one’s body helps to steady him. Not knowing what’s coming.

Dread seizes his insides with equally skeletal hands. “You have to live with whatever you do to me. This’ll hurt you too.”

“I’m counting on it.”

His breath is hot on the back of Loki’s neck even before his future self’s arms are winding around him. The old one’s grasp is tight enough to force the breath from his lungs. It’s hard to draw air. One of his hands ventures lower; Loki bites his lip. Pleading won’t do him any good, he knows that much already, and escape doesn’t seem - the old one grasps him through his trousers, and Loki sucks in a quick breath before he can help it. “Why do this to - to yourself?”

“Oh, little Loki,” He laughs, “I’m going to give you exactly what I need.” His lips close over Loki’s neck: hot and wet, and right beneath his jaw where Loki’s especially sensitive. His older self knows this, Loki realizes with growing dread, knows everything.

“That’s right,” the old one continues, dark amusement still tinging his words. “I know where this ends up. _Trust me_.” The sentiment tastes sour on Loki’s tongue, the hiss of his older self’s voice sliding down his spine. Silently he swears to himself that he’ll never use those words again, no matter what the situation. He’ll find some other way to get his point across.

“Never.” Loki grits out through clenched teeth, but the old one only laughs again. His long, clever fingers curl around Loki’s cock, coaxing and teasing until Loki unwillingly feels his flesh begin to harden. He fights it with all he has, his whole body shaking from how tightly his muscles are clenched, but the old one doesn’t let up. Loki’s eyes sting, his face growing hot, and he nearly chokes on a gasp when the old one runs a nail over the ridge of his cock. “No,” Even through the fabric it makes him tense involuntarily, heat rushing to the surface of his skin. Loki swore he wouldn’t beg, but, “don’t,” he pleads, and then tries again - “You’re not going to get your way. I won’t-”

“So sure of that, are you?” The amusement in his voice is the worst part. It makes the taunting seem even more cruel. All of it is exquisitely intimate; there’s no way to forget that he’s doing this to himself. It only adds to the shame of, of - his teeth close painfully around his tongue, but too late to silence another gasp, and old Loki laughs long and low against the shell of his ear. “You were always meant to yield to me.”

There’s a whisper in the darkness, the faintest flash of sickly green light somewhere near Loki’s hip. Cold, sinister metal tears through his shirt, brushing against his skin just this side of too fleetingly to cut. He hears the fabric shred, feels it pulled taut against his back and sides an instant before cool air replaces it.

Loki shivers, his skin prickling uncomfortably. It would have been easier to magic his clothes away - but that doesn’t carry the same symbolic violation. The subtext of it terrifies him; knowing the old one’s game doesn’t make it any less effective.

The knife finds its way back to his exposed stomach, traces up, over his abdomen, seemingly colder for all the heat pouring off his own skin. His future self’s breath is steady against the back of his neck as he manipulates it, at direct counterpoint to Loki’s own ragged breathing. “Yield,” He could swear the old one repeats, hand still moving over his cock. Icy cold spills over his chest anew for every movement of the knife, the old one’s arm flexing steadily against the side of his ribs, and Loki doesn’t dare struggle.

He wants to yell out, to tell this wicked god “ _enough!_ ”, but he clenches his teeth until his tongue loses feeling between them. Loki might be able to taste blood; he’s not entirely sure. All of his attentions are divided: the hand on his cock, the warm solid weight of the old one behind him, and the stinging bite of the knife, now slipping down towards his waistband. It’s all he can do to remain silent. His arms burn from being held aloft, the strain on his shoulders mounting each time his knees go weak. This isn’t the kind of battle he’s ever been prepared for. This isn’t a fight he knows how to win.

“That’s better,” the old one presses a mockery of a kiss to one of his trembling arms, “Let me in, little Loki.”

It’s a struggle to grit the word out. “No.”

The hand around his cock tightens, the knife pressing worryingly deeper. A trickle of something makes its way between them, soaks into the fabric of his pants. Loki has no way of placing it, but it must be blood; he’s too chilled to sweat, one bone deep ache of many now.

The old one’s cock is hard against the small of his back. “I do so enjoy this,” he says, almost believably conversational if it weren’t for the rush of renewed dread it sets twisting in the lowest pit of Loki’s stomach, “You’ll appreciate it when you’re me. Just you wait.”

“I won’t.” Loki counters. His eyes are stinging again. Humiliation is sure to follow. “I would never.”

“Ahh, how does the saying go? ‘As you are now, so once was I...’ I know how this affects you,” his fingers twist around Loki’s cock, tugging roughly, “Now, and long after I’ve allowed you to slip my clutches.”

The knife darts lower without warning, and when the old one draws his hand back, Loki’s pants flutter open. "Don't you want to know how hard you struggle to keep this secret? From your precious girlfriend, or perhaps your deluded big brother? They do _so_ worry about you." The fabric catches midway down his thighs, but leaves him just as bare. Cold stings at his skin. And yet it still takes everything he has not to let his hips follow the fleeting touch, and Loki hates himself for it. “Just look at you trembling. What a pathetic little child was I.”

“Damn you.” _Leave them out of this_. Even his voice is shaking for all that Loki’s trying to hold back - what, he’s not entirely sure. A sob or a moan or a gasp, they’re all equally as damning. “My future isn’t yours.” The words are all he has, and they both know it. Loki clings to them with the desperation of a drowning man. His older self takes him in hand again, his movements even more deft without the fabric in his way. Loki shudders and tries to fight the pleasure, the compulsion to react. If he loses this, he’s lost everything.

“All you are is mine.”

The words send chills through him still, a wicked current racing up and down Loki’s spine. His balls clench up tight, cock twitching. “No,” Loki gasps, “no.” He’s falling apart, his whole body fighting to lurch up into the old one’s poisonous touch, but he can’t - he can’t -

“ _I_ am Loki,” he grits out, trying to summon the words that make the story, that make it so - so his destiny is his own-

“And _I_ have done terrible things to be Loki.” The old one’s hardness digs into his back like a brand even as he steals the words from Loki’s lips. “Terrible, terrible things to all who stood in my way. Not least, myself.”

They fall into place like a terrible prophecy, tighter than the chains digging into his wrists, or the arms wrapped around his sides. It’s a crushing weight. “No,” he tries to argue, that’s not my story - but the words don’t come for him. They’ve deserted Loki, left him cold.

Wretched.

Broken.

The sounds wrested from him in their place feel like the greatest violation of all. His cheeks are wet, his fists clenched and curling uselessly. Loki doesn’t know when the tears started, but he can’t blink them away fast enough, silently mouthing his pain through the taste of salt. There’s a gaping hole in his chest growing with every second, but it’s not enough - the heat and tension are building twice as fast under the old one’s damnably steady hand.

“Poor little Loki,” says a whisper against the back of his neck, “You thought I didn’t know your precious story? Think again.” He twists his wrist, dragging his thumbnail down the head of Loki’s cock for a particularly brutal bit of punctuation. “I wrote it.”

The words barely make it through the pounding of blood in Loki’s ears, the heat at his groin spreading down his thighs and creeping up his stomach. It burns against the chill in the air, and Loki feels like he’s been lit on fire, his entire body gone sensitive past the point of pain. _Burning, forever burning_.

He doesn’t dare open his mouth, but choked off noises snarl in his throat. Pleasure is sparking all along the length of his cock, shocky echoes ricocheting through the rest of his body. Loki’s aware he’s shaking worse than ever, but it doesn’t really register until his legs give out, shoulders and wrists wrenched agonizingly in the moment it takes the old one to hoist his weight.

He’s laughing as he does. “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet, Loki.” _Pathetic little child_.

Loki wishes he could throw up, but still more urgent is the clench of muscles centered around the old one’s touch. He hasn’t let up all this time, occasionally varying the speed or the pressure, but never ceasing. “Please,” he begs, one last-ditch concession in an attempt to salvage what little of his dignity he might be able.

Precum drips from the tip of his cock, going cold against his overheated flesh almost instantly. His whole body jerks when his other self swipes it back down over his cock, threatening to overwhelm him right there and then. “No - _no_!” Loki forces himself to still with a truly herculean effort, every muscle in his body clenched as tightly as he can manage. He hangs his head with a frustrated sob.

He can’t do it. His cheeks flame afresh, his lungs catching on every desperate gasp.

“You are me. You are mine.” Loki repeats, “And I control myself.” His fingers do something that doesn’t even register, because Loki is lost. All that tension, all his resistance - something bursts inside of him and he’s coming - looking out onto the world from a real flesh and blood body for the first time, hating himself more than every nightmare, every past crime, every betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” He sobs, “sorry - I’m so, so sorry.”

When the old one finally speaks again, it’s with the finality of a story long since concluded. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he says. His fingers card through Loki’s hair roughly, not so much about accentuating his words as it is further marking Loki with the evidence of his humiliation.

“You won’t be.”

**Author's Note:**

> I should be shot for the pun in the title alone. There is no excuse for any of this.


End file.
